EMOTIONAL SERVICE
As I’ve become intent on selecting monthly entries for my blog, I have come across a category of fiction that I’d previously been unaware of. It’s the “short short story” (sometimes called, “sudden fiction” or “flash fiction”) – much shorter than a full-blown short story, but with different characteristics. Here’s how the editors of a book of 60 short short stories titled “Sudden Fiction International” put it:
“The recent flowering of the short-short form has been heralded as the birth of a new sub-genre of fiction, one that is sometimes like the larger short story, but often more tantalizing, protean, and highly charged.”
And the editors of “Field Guide to Writing Flash fiction” tell us:
“Flash Fiction is burgeoning, with significant growth in the number of people writing and publishing short shorts.”
Well, I don’t know much about this “protean” stuff, and I haven’t yet read any of the books on the subject or examined the multiple examples of the sub-genre, but I’ve decided to take a first crack at something short and blog-worthy – and here it is.
Let me know what you think of the effort.
EMOTIONAL SERVICE
by Jim Freund
© 2022
“GODDAMMIT!” John muttered half to himself as he hung up the phone – I could actually lose my job if this thing doesn’t get resolved the right way at that meeting Friday morning.
The prospect was very disquieting to him, especially since he wouldn’t even be there at the Friday meeting to plead his case. Just this Monday he had tested positive for covid and was forced to quarantine for the week at his weekend house on Long Island. “SONUVABITCH” he moaned.
It was late Wednesday afternoon and the morning sun had long since disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds. Today’s weather report had warned of a storm toward evening, but so far no drops had fallen.
John was sitting on the couch in the den pondering what to do next when, looking down at his feet, he saw Buddy, one of the three family dogs. This was unusual, since Buddy and his mates devoted the bulk of their attention to John’s wife, Lucy – and well they should, he conceded, since she was responsible for feeding, walking and cuddling them.
Buddy – a twenty pound rescue dog whose precise breeding was strictly a matter of conjecture – stood there looking up at John, his facial expression strongly suggesting he was in need of something. John knew it wasn’t a food treat, since Lucy had given strict instructions against doling those out. Maybe Buddy wants me to open the screen door so he can take a leak in the yard . . . .
And then it hit John – of course! He reached down, scooped Buddy up beside him, and came in contact with those unnatural canine vibrations – Buddy definitely needed his help.
Preoccupied with the travails of work and his covid battle, John had forgotten about Buddy’s irrational fear of turbulent weather. When the thunder struck, the lightning flashed, and the rains came, Buddy turned into a clearly distressed critter – his internal motor generating an endless series of panicky quakes. And now John also recalled that Buddy seemed able to predict and be frightened by the imminence of a storm even before it hit – it’s like the damn dog can sense a change in barometric pressure – which was likely the case now.
Over the past six months – ever since they rescued Buddy from the animal shelter where he’d landed after being abandoned by his prior owner – Buddy had sought comfort in snuggling close to a human whenever a storm came their way. And since Lucy was often busy with some form of housework or tending to the other dogs, at times Buddy was forced to turn to John for emotional support.
Although sympathetic to Buddy’s illogical fear, John sometimes found this chore irritating when he was in the middle of an activity that demanded his full attention, in which case his helpful ministrations would be largely symbolic and generally short-lived. But when, as now, there wasn’t much else to do, he was willing to give Buddy added care.
To be sure, John’s bag of tricks consisted of little more than nestling the dog close to his body and murmuring occasional words of comfort. This didn’t check Buddy’s vibrations, which true to form speeded up as the rains soon came. Still, John felt he was performing a useful role; and although he might not have admitted it publicly, he took secret pleasure at being able to offer some emotional support to this distressed animal who sought it from him.
They stayed that way for a half hour – mostly just sharing body warmth – until the moderate storm came to an end, and Buddy’s throbbing insides settled back to normal.
The next day, Thursday, dawned bright and sunny. Even the Cassandra-like morning weatherman was forced to admit there was almost no chance of precipitation that day. But John was not in synch with the weather – his mood had turned foul indeed.
The growing fear of being fired was a source of real agitation, with the volatility increased by the covid-caused inability to plead his case in person at the Friday meeting. Plus which, although he didn’t like to admit it, he’d been drinking too much vodka lately, further souring his system.
When John got like this – which occurred with some frequency even before covid and any fear about his job – his typical way of blowing off steam was to shout lustily a repetitive string of four-letter-word curses and foul epithets that Lucy claimed shook the rafters of their residence. When they heard him begin to erupt, his children scattered to their rooms, and the dogs kept a respectful distance.
Lucy was no longer forgiving about this verbal rampage; rather, she chastised him for losing control and expressed concern about what it signified. Once John had overheard Lucy on the telephone with her mother, musing about whether her husband should be seeing a psychiatrist to overcome his seeming inability to cope with life.
Sitting on the couch that afternoon, musing on his troubles with a hefty thermos of vodka martinis by his side, John could tell that he was losing control. He repeated to himself his usual bromide – Worry is the interest paid on trouble before it’s due – but it failed to calm him down. And suddenly the frustration burst forth. He closed his eyes, put down the thermos, made his hands into fists, and unleashed an endless stream of loud foul-mouthed curses and epithets that seemed to carom off the walls of the den.
The outburst lasted for almost a minute. When he finished his swearing, John opened his eyes, looked down, and saw Buddy standing in front of the couch gazing up at him. That’s strange, John thought – all the dogs usually hightail it to a distant room when I launch into one of these. But the expression on Buddy’s face wasn’t the same frantic one as he’d worn the day before, and John was unable to discern what it might signify.
Still, John could tell that Buddy was looking to be picked up for some reason. So, after a few moments of immobility, John reached down and hoisted the dog up on the couch beside him.
As Buddy snuggled alongside, John felt nary a tremor emanating from him. That’s curious, thought John, the dog isn’t even trembling – so why had he asked to be lifted up? It was a totally unnatural gesture for Buddy except when he sought comfort against an oncoming storm, – and today no rain was due at all.
John couldn’t figure this out right away, but after giving Buddy a friendly squeeze stopped pondering the question. Some quiet minutes passed with no further movement or sounds. John found himself thinking about tomorrow’s key meeting that he would have to miss. But the basic issue seemed to clarify itself in his mind, and he tentatively concluded that, for a number of reasons, it was unlikely he’d be fired. A few minutes later he stopped agonizing over the persistence of covid and actually realized that he enjoyed the opportunity given by the quarantine to be with his family at home. As more minutes passed, his anxiety seemed to ebb, and he felt his heart rate returning to near normal . . . .
What’s happening here? he thought. And then, with absolute clarity, the answer dawned on him. Buddy heard my curses and interpreted them as an anguished cry of distress. The dog equated that to his own distress yesterday at the change of barometric pressure. When Buddy knew he needed help, he sought it out from me. And now, in my time of need, Buddy has decided to give me the same type of emotional service that I gave Buddy when the storm came to town.
John reached over to pat Buddy on the back, and with his other hand placed the thermos, unopened, on a nearby table . . . .